


Delete

by sherlockholmes-notanamateur (loki_godofmischiefandlies)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know what this is but here have it, M/M, Season/Series 03, Unrequited Love, Weird writing Style
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 17:55:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1827091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loki_godofmischiefandlies/pseuds/sherlockholmes-notanamateur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can't take it anymore, and he knows it's between the drugs and deletion. </p>
<p>But he knows that if he chooses the drugs that John will be disappointed in him and he'll lose John forever. So he decides to delete. To take his heart and erase it. </p>
<p>Sociopaths don't need to love anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delete

It starts out as a tiny ache, that phantom burning in his chest when he first returns and sees them sitting in that stupid restaurant with John trying way too hard. 

It grows into a throbbing as he helps Mary plan the perfect wedding for her and John. His John. The John he loves. 

After the wedding, it's a stabbing sensation every time he sees them together. He leaves because not even dancing can ease the pain. 

When Mary turns out to be not quite what she seems, it stops for a bit. And then John takes her back and it kicks in even worse than before. After the Magnussen case, he stops eating. It's not that he wants to. It's just that everything tastes like ash and sits like a rock in his stomach until it comes back up tasting ten times worse the second time around. Sleep no longer comes, but that is more willing. He's tired of waking up with tears rolling down his cheeks like he's a child all over again and the nightmares are closing in on him. 

It's not until he's rolling a needle around in his fingers and craving the blurry bliss of a high that he hasn't felt in years that he realizes things have gone too far. He drops the needle in disgust and kicks it under the sofa. When Mrs. Hudson finds it 3 days later, all she can do is hug him and mutter "oh Sherlock" over and over again in his ears until he falls asleep sobbing into her shoulder. 

When he tells Mycroft, he's expecting the gloating, the "I told you so". Caring is not an advantage. But instead, Mycroft goes pale and doesn't speak for a long time. When he finally does, it's a soft "I'm sorry" and a squeeze on the shoulder. 

His mother cries for a long time, and his father gives him a hug that reminds him of the hug he got when Redbeard had to be put down. They start visiting once a week after that. 

Greg is the worst. There's shouting, a thrown glass, and eventually tears and a hug so tight that he's afraid his ribs will crack under the pressure. Greg shudders at that; he hasn't felt Sherlock's ribs that easily since Sherlock was on drugs. 

 

John doesn't find out until the day it happens. He gets an email, and at first he's tempted to delete it because it's from Sherlock and it's subject reads EXTREMELY IMPORTANT, READ AT ONCE and knowing Sherlock it actually isn't important at all. But then he reads the email and he throws up and he cries and nothing Mary does can console him because he's ruined the most brilliant man he's ever known without even trying. 

\-------

_Dear John,_

_My blogger, my conductor of light, my one, only, and best friend...I must begin this email with an apology. If you are reading this, it means that I am no longer the same man that I once was. You see, something happened to me years ago, when a crazy ex-soldier in a jumper jumped on a madman because he threatened my life. I fell in love. I should have known better. I grew up hearing from Mycroft that caring was not an advantage. I felt the horrid sense of loss when Redbeard died. But no, I ignored every warning and every self written rule I had and I fell in love with you John Watson. It wasn't a single, glorious moment, but a collection of things. Your horrid jumpers. The fact that you made me tea even when I was being a prick. The adrenaline fueled laughter that would fill the foyer after a case. Your steadfast loyalty and unfailing aim. I cannot express how much I love you. I only got to do so once, and that was when a madman pointed a sniper at you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and gave me a choice. To break you, but save your life, or to live without you. And so I did the only thing that I could do and I made everyone believe that I was dead. And the entire time I was gone, I never stopped loving you. The torture chamber in Siberia, drug dens in Thailand, having my bones broken in Brasil, starving in France...I only survived because I knew that I would eventually get to come back and see you. The hope that I could tell you how I felt kept me going. And then I did return, and I found you in that stupid restaurant with that beautiful woman and I knew that it was too late. The moustache wasn't my finest disguise, but I was breaking from the inside out at that moment. I was desperate. I hoped against hope that maybe if I came back, the ring would go away. But it didn't, and she said yes, and she encouraged us to still work together._

_And you were happy._

_So I helped her plan the dream wedding for the both of you. I looked at colour samples and learned how to fold napkins and I helped with seating arrangements all while I crumbled. I never understood why it was called heartbreak until I felt it. It's not an accurate term, but it suffices. Breaking, shattering, crumbling...Moriarty did indeed succeed in burning the heart out of me, but not in the way he expected. Time separated us and brought you a wife and she is so perfect for you. Even after Magnussen I knew you were happy. And now you have a beautiful baby girl that I can't even bring myself to hold because I look at her and wish that she was_ **_ours_ ** _instead of yours and it's not fair to her, to an innocent child, that I project my selfishness and hurt and jealousy onto her. And you get mad because I can't hold my goddaughter and I hate myself for even saying yes to that stupid request because really, every time you and Mary refer to me as "Uncle Sherlock" while talking to Billie, I just fall apart a bit more. And really, Billie? I was kidding when I said to name the baby after me and now you've gone and done it you perfect, infuriating man._

_Billie is really where this all stems from though. You told me that if I was not clean when she was born, I would never see her. And as much as I wish I could say that I would be fine with that, I can't. I know I can't hold her yet, but she still deserves all of the love she can get. And I found myself torn between drugs and deletion. Drugs would wipe it all away, and I would be free and alone. But once again, you ruined me John Watson. I know it would break you just a bit to see me drown in addiction again. And little Billie...well, someone has to teach her chemistry. So I'm deleting it._

_Not us, not our friendship, not the cases or the laughter or the fear. Just the love. By the time you have finished this email, I will have effectively wiped all romantic feelings and attachments to you from my memory and replaced them with intense friendship and loyalty. I will have ingrained it in my mind that Billie is to be show the utmost love, care, and affection. I may never get to love you John, but I can give her something close._

_And so it is with my apologies that I end this as well. I am sorry that I will be changed when you next see me. I am sorry that I am so selfish. But I will never be sorry for the fact that you are happy._

_For the first and last time..._

_I love you._

_Sherlock Holmes._

_\-------_

He's colder now, more calculating, less empathetic. Greg is stiff and formal when they talk, and Sherlock knows that something about their friendship changed somewhere along the line, but he doesn't know what. All he does know is that Sally gets dismissed from the force for calling him a freak one day and that Greg sometimes drinks too much after cases where Sherlock has to call John in for help. 

He's always more sensitive when cases involve children and he carries a picture of little Billie in his wallet, her big blue eyes and gap toothed smile a constant reminder of why he still does what he does. He sees John much less frequently than he used to, but Mary is an almost constant presence in his life. She brings him food and makes sure he's sleeping and laughs when he tries to teach Billie things she can't possibly understand yet. 

He knows he's deleted something. He can see the gap in his mind palace, the slightly clumsy patching over of certain memories, but he also sees the blaring red tape and pitfalls that await him if he tries to recover the original data. He sees the sad looks he gets from Greg and Mycroft at family parties, because they're together now but they seem so guilty about something all of the time. He notices the way Mrs. Hudson stops bringing up girlfriends and boyfriends and Mrs. Turner's married ones, but he doesn't question it. 

He is a machine. He is effective, he is ruthless, and he is fast. 

He stops to braid his goddaughter's hair and correct the way she holds her little violin, but he never considers his own children. 

He asks Mary how John is and he checks in on his blogger and he even donates to John's new practice, but he almost never sees John alone anymore. 

He flinches at the word love and he forbids mistletoe from being hung anywhere near the flat during the holidays. He spends New Years Eve alone and he turns away whenever he sees a couple kissing. His compositions lose the flair that they once had, but that doesn't bother him because his technique is still flawless and he still plays beautifully when he tries. He never notices how the people that know him shudder and leave when they hear how emotionally flat his music has become. 

He is never alone, but he is constantly lonely. 

But the temptation stays buried and the drugs never resurface, and so when Sherlock finally,  _finally_ uncovers what he buried (because delete was never the right word for it), he can't help but feel some sense of justification. It doesn't matter that John passed away just hours before, and it doesn't matter that when Sherlock goes to sleep he doesn't wake up the next day, because he knows that he stuck to the vow he made the day that John and Mary got married. He protected the Watson family from everything he could. Criminals, themselves, and himself. 

He dies with a smile on his face and the love he held for John Watson once more lighting up his life one final time. 


End file.
